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(Donna's meditation on what lies under love appears here in two parts)

Lately I've been pondering the question, "What is under love? "

I read a poem tackling this question and wasn't satisfied with the answer.
Under love, like underbrush, or the under story of a forest. A thousand small kindnesses, which, if you are doing your job, should go unnoticed. Earthworms, or ash. The probable company of our final resting places. "Each other" is under love. You under me, and me under you. The weight we bear and can't surrender.

Forgiveness is under love. Sweet, absolute forgiveness for what we did, or what we couldn't do. The one who recognizes intent, conscious and unconscious and shines a kind light on motive. "Ahh, you were mastering the complex art of balance. You were hell bent on surviving." Stretched wide. Leg moving slowly up the muscle and tension of a neighboring thigh trying to find "tree pose." It's all about striving for balance against the pull of solar plexus and the demands of gravity. Trying not to fall, hard.
We try not to fall.

Ahh, but back to love at the root. Breast and milk and the word "yes." A mother reflexively sweeping her long hair from front to back. This gesture she has done since childhood, but now she offers her engorged nipple to the yearning rosebud of her daughter's mouth. This baby will suck goodness from the body of her mother and swallow satisfaction. Time and time again, swallowing whatever goodness life pours out. Innocent and needful. Trusting love to stay.

Under love there are no limits. No prisons or cages, tricks or tracks. No preconceived notions. We make virgin footprints of pain and of pleasure. In time, the wind blows, the sands shift, the snow drifts high. We let go of the binding concepts of "good and bad", and "yours and mine." And the lonely language of right and wrong. We let go of that, too. The distance between you and me. Maybe we unbuckle our seat belts for good. Turn off the bossy, GPS lady. Roll the top down on the convertible, or crank the manual windows all the way down, fully open. We notice every single detail of the ride. Avoid the soft brown and white body of the rabbit flirting with death. We see her wide-eyed terror and disorientation in the glow of low beams. We feel her, the pavement beneath her panic, her feet scrambling this way and that in search of lush green cover. The chaos and pounding of her small heart on high alert. All this we feel in the instant which governs life, or death, or life. And we steer accordingly.

Under love there is voice. And eyes which cannot hide, which never lie. Sometimes our best efforts at loving are murky, but during pain, or change, or toe curling joy, there is this voice that advocates for "a love round on the house," that wants each one of us to step in this river, to taste that mouth, a perfectly seasoned fork full of food, a lemony, minty iced drink that slides down smoothly. To be held through the dark night into the light of day. To know the heart of the universe is a loving one, wanting that all our angst be met with an open, soft palm on the exact place that hurts. Our desires met, and then some. Our questions not answered, exactly, but respectfully regarded and understood for the cacaphony of emotions they reveal. We are left to sort on our lonely own.

Which brings me to this.

Under love, there is lonliness. The separation of skin. That I am contained over here in mine, and you, over there, in yours. How it feels to sign off, or say "goodbye" outloud, and mindful that it could be the last time. To pull reluctantly away from a body you want to hold onto, perhaps forever. To feel the undeniable "I want you..." and let go at the same time. To have without holding. To love, without having.

Under love is lonliness, and the times we wonder in the privacy of our own landscapes, where we are likely to end. A coffin. A grave. An ocean. A decorative, or simple urn. In my case, flung over a sturdy branch, belly down. Food for the winged ones. Out of sight from children because I would never want to frighten them. Fire, my back up plan,

because it is the element in which I am most at home. I prefer a branch with a view, and the comfort of anticipating sun on my skin. Fresh air. Peepers, and star light. Letting it all go...me, you, and the myth of separation.

Truth is, I have always been with you. I will always be with you. I am with you right now, in this moment. Here. My hand rests here. My heart rests here. Sharing your tea, your joy, your temporary sorrow. You will forget sometimes. I will, too. That's alright. We came here not to feign courage like stoic gods and goddesses. We came to take the human ride. So give me your soft palm. Let me hold it awhile. We will practise remembering.